


Golden Days

by mairieux



Series: i think i fell in love again [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: But you don't need accurate weather conditions to fall in love, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, M/M, Probably inaccurate weather too, Reincarnation, Time Travel, Viktor had the impossible heart shaped smile, Yuuri likes to call things stupid, katsudonbang2017, painter au, they fall in love anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mairieux/pseuds/mairieux
Summary: It was supposed to be a fun day out, hanging out with friends and looking at artworks in a high-end museum. Except, well, Yuuri justhadto break the museum rules, didn't he? So he falls, falling and falling until he feels pain on his bottom. And when he opens his eyes,well, there isn't supposed to be snow on where he is right now.Or, the fic Where Yuuri gets transported inside a painting and meets Viktor, the artist who made the artwork that brought him here. And this- this is their stupid love story of Viktor making Yuuri go back in time just to make him fall in love and it's as ridiculous as it gets.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been to le louvre so ples forgiv if it's inaccurate when it comes to structures and interior!!  
> I don't know shit abt Russian weather and seasons too so that's probably in accurate as well Ples Forgiv
> 
> ,,,, this is just gonna be a mess,,,,, probably ╰(*´︶`*)╯

* * *

_i. kairos_  
_// Le Louvre, France – Early March, 2017_

_You are an art student; you are not going to lose your cool. You are an art student; you are not going to lose your cool. You are an art student; you are not going to lose your-_

“Yuuri, Yuuri!”

His train of thoughts were broken when his best friend’s voice - Phichit, called him from afar, making him flinch. There are people staring at them now.

“ _Phichit_ ,” he subtly hisses when he reaches his friend, who’s just laughing noncommittally, “lower your voice down.”

“Sorry, Yuuri,” he was definitely not sorry, “it’s just – it’s _Le Louvre_!”

 _I know_.

“I know,” Yuuri voices out, trying not to bare so much excitement as well, “haven’t we always wanted to come here?”

Phichit makes a noise of agreement, and he smiles wider when he sees Chris and their other friends looking at sculptures. And Chris- he seems to be comparing his own arse and a marble statue’s.

The Japanese snorts at the sight. _Of course_ , of course he would, he’s _Chris_.

“I’ll catch up to them so you go explore on your own!” And before Yuuri could reply, Phichit’s off of his feet again, this time waving exaggeratedly as he makes his way to Chris and the others.

God, _thank God_ \- he’s not part of the attention Phichit’s getting now.

Yuuri makes his way to the artist gallery, heart skipping every time he recognises an artist he’d always admired.

His eyes go soft when he sees Van Gogh’s gallery; ever since he was young, he had always loved his paintings.

_“Irises”, “The Potato Eaters”, “The Church at Auvers”, “Vase with Fifteen Sunflowers”…_

He stands still, eyes completely trained at his newly discovered painting, “ _Sunset at Montmajour_ ”. With the knowledge of the fact that he _can’t_ snap a photo of this beautiful artwork, he tries his best to make sure it burns to his memory.

Maybe though, he’s a little too into it as he completely misses someone rushing and causes them to bump into him.

“Sorry!” The person apologises in a flurry, before scurrying away and leaving Yuuri to his senses again. He misses the person and just sees another artist’s gallery – _oh_? He walks towards the new section he hasn’t been in before, scanning the hanged artworks wall to wall.

His eye catches one of the paintings, a pretty portrait of a coffee cup on a window sill, it’s dark outside and Yuuri can see how much detail was put into painting the stars.

The tiny flecks of oil paint scatters in the small space, light blue and white and pale yellow, before fading into the almost indigo night sky.

_Gorgeous._

“ _Coffee with the Stars,_ ” he reads out loud the plate under the painting that’s in neat cursive writing. His gaze goes back to the artwork, judging if he’s seen this style or work before.

 _No_ , he definitely hasn’t. Well he would’ve, if only he didn’t obsess over Van Gogh so much.

Yuuri looks over to the right, and it’s another portrait with the window, however this time it’s daytime and he can see the buildings better. Snow covered the stone ground, and it almost feels lonely to look at.

 _“Cold morning”,_ its plate says.

He looks around if there’s a profile for the artist and, _yes_ , there is.

It’s quite brief; maybe the artist wasn’t really public about his life?

The caption says, “Viktor, a Russian painter from St. Petersburg. His last name’s yet to be known, and his only significant physical feature is his self-portrait of his back that shows off his long silver hair. His works were just recently found four years ago and were put up in exhibit in _State Hermitage_. Viktor’s paintings will only be available in _Le Louvre_ for a limited amount of time.”

 _Undiscovered artist?_ That’s a bit rare nowadays.

It continues, “His style is significant for extreme attention to details and soft lighting. He often paints buildings and flora, until later in his life he started painting-“

A shouting from across the hallway grabs his attention and sees a teenager trying to snap a photo of one of Viktor’s paintings. Yuuri shakes his head.

 _God, it’s_ 2017 _. When will people learn that taking photos of paintings especially with the flash on_ ruins _them?_

His eyes go back to the caption, but he sees how long it actually goes and gives up – he’d rather know about this guy through his paintings instead.

The next work he sees is a larger work of a garden of blue roses, with wispy strokes and more pigmented paint. _It’s remarkable._

Now, the next thing is a different change of scenery – a market.

Yuuri can see different kinds of people walking and running about in snow-covered grounds. The stalls have vibrant colours painted to a manifold of fruits, and the profile didn’t lie, Yuuri can see the strawberries’ dots if he looked close enough.

And that he did. He tries to scoot closer without completely going past the velvet rope barrier, and looks closer to see the oil painting in a much more detailed view.

He can see each stroke overlapping each other, where the paint will vanish and go before blending into a different colour.

Then he looks at the middle of the painting, where a bag of red apples lie deserted amidst the people walking around it. It almost didn’t make sense to Yuuri if he haven’t read the title.

“ _Loneliness_ ”, its titled, and he couldn’t agree more. The apples are less vibrant and paler than the other fruits, making it almost easy to miss even if it was painted in the middle of the canvas.

Most of the time, when painters want to have a focus point in a painting, they would use the most vibrant colour to make a contrast against the background. But Viktor did the opposite.

The background scenery is so vibrant it makes you miss what is in the middle – a lone bag of pale apples. Maybe that’s why even the people in the painting aren’t paying attention to it.

Yuuri laughs at himself, after all, since when did he get _this_ invested to a painting that’s not Van Gogh’s _?_

Unable to help himself, he reaches out to touch the painting, the texture of the oil paints tempting him to run his hand around the canvas – except that didn’t happen.

His body suddenly feels light, and _oh no_ he’s tipping _over_.

He doesn’t know if it’s because someone pushed him over or he tripped over the metal posts but it doesn’t matter as he’s falling forward face flat.

The man closes his eyes shut and waits for the clanging of the barrier and the impact of the fall, praying to whichever god right now that maybe this isn’t actually happening.

Katsuki Yuuri, already twenty-four years old, _too old for something like this._

* * *

_ii. monachopsis_

Even with his eyes shut tight, Yuuri knows in those slow milliseconds he’s about to receive his impending death. He ponders if he should greet his broken nose and glasses with a broken smile too.

However, that doesn’t happen as he feels pain on his bottom instead.

_What?... ??_

He, for once, opens his brown eyes and almost feels blinded immediately by harsh light.

_Is this an emergency room?_

No, that wouldn’t make sense, of course, of course. Unless-

 _Unless_ … _no, of course not!_

Then…

“Oi, piggy!”

Yuuri tries his best to adjust his eyes to brightness, facing towards the loud voice that seems to have come from his… front?

He blinks once, twice, and thrice, and _finally_ the blinding light is starting to become more tolerable... Only to reveal a boy, no younger than – what, _fifteen?_ – scowling at him.

“Um…” Yuuri starts off, nervously starting to sweat from his sudden position as he starts coming to his senses. His hands feel stone under his palms, and he sees snow and dirt between his fingers.

_What the fuck?_

“ _Any_ minute now.” The boy in front of him continues, his foot tapping impatiently. He adjusts the paper bag of fruits he seems to be holding on his arms, and shifts the bag so only one arm is holding the bag. The other is left to perch on his waist and poses as if he’s tired of waiting for _forever_.

“Wait a moment, um,” Yuuri’s still unable to formulate sentences, as his eyes trail all over the snow-covered ground. There are people around them, and he sees people with bags same the boy in front of him is carrying.

There are stalls, too. Fruits, vegetables, starch… _a market?_

He glances down and realises he’s wearing different clothes; _these are_ definitely _not the jeans he was wearing five minutes ago_.

His right hand moves to touch the texture of the new pair of pants he’s wearing, but he feels something else touch his hand.

Yuuri yelps almost loudly when he sees a dog licking his hand – _a poodle?_ – and nudge a toppled bag of vegetables.

Oh. Was he carrying this?

Someone clears a throat, and Yuuri’s reminded again that s _omething_ is _very_ wrong.

“Just… Just a moment,” he tries to smile, despite his discomfort.

And the boy responds silently with his scowl only getting worse, head moving fast as his what seemed blond hair shines under the mild sun.

“Don’t tell me you hit your head,” the boy mutters with the slightest hint of concern. But he covers it up, when he smirks and taunts, “but maybe you did. Since your _damn_ brain’s in your ass.”

 _Well_ _then_. Yuuri decides he’s had enough. Even if he doesn’t a single clue who this boy is, but assuming he’s literally insulting him with every way he can, they must be close enough for Yuuri to trust him… right?

He stands up and collects the toppled bag, patting away the snow that got on his pants with his spare hand. The dog from earlier nuzzles him again, prompting Yuuri to automatically pat his head.

 _‘I must’ve fallen pretty hard,’_ he concludes when they started walking again with the dog trotting behind. ‘ _I fell really hard, broke my nose, glasses, and passed out at_ Le Louvre.’

God, he hates himself _so_ much; _of course_ such thing can only happen to him.

Katsuki Yuuri, _every-fucking-body_!

The Japanese tries to shake away any more self-hating thoughts, and _if_ he did pass out, this must be what they call _comatose_ or whatever. Either that, _or_ this is what you see before you die.

With the teenage boy angrily mumbling in front of him, this being his death doesn’t seem so far from the truth.

Even if he’s maybe in coma, or approaching death, _whatever_ \- it wouldn’t hurt to know where he is, right?

So when he looks around again, with white covering almost everything, it must be somewhere in Europe. Perhaps in the Nordic regions? Somewhere where it snows _a lot_.

Yuuri tries to remember his Geography class, and tries to list down in his brain where he knows where there’s a lot of snow. Because this isn’t some normal Winter snow, even if a snowstorm just recently passed.

This is somewhere where it snowed _almost every day_.

 _‘Sweden? Finland… Norway…’_ He looks around again, but the culture doesn’t look like it’s close to how those countries live by currently, which leaves him to…

“Russia.” He doesn’t know if he said it out loud, yet with the boy looking at him oddly, he probably did.

“You saying something, piggy?”

He shakes his head _no_ , and doesn’t say anything further. It leaves the teen to question him quietly and just shrug it off.

 _I’m_ definitely _in Russia_ , he declares to himself, as he sees a street sign in those Cyrillic letters he’s seen a few times before. His friend, Chris, is an ice skater, and Yuuri’s been to his competitions in Sochi and Moscow enough times to know how Russian looks like.

_And that’s definitely Russian._

But why Russia?

There’s nothing really significant in Russia to him, after all.

He grew up in Japan until he turned eighteen, and moved to Detroit in the US to major in Visual Arts.

Even him going to Russia sometimes to see Chris perform isn’t enough for him to have a sentimental value enough that it’ll be where his _comatose dream thingamabob_ to take place. Unless…

He didn’t get sucked into the painting, _right_.

_Yeah… he definitely… didn’t._

At least, Yuuri tries to reason that with himself even if he can’t take his eyes off from the fruits – significantly the red apples, the boy in front of him is carrying.

 _Definitely_.

(Fuck.)

* * *

* * *

Eventually, they come to a stop. And that stop is a cottage. In the middle of a street where either old buildings or flora only reside.

“Keys.” The blond boy asks- no, _demands_ him, almost aggressively with his hand put out abruptly.

Yuuri’s about to say no, until his hand feels metal inside his pocket. _Never mind_.

He hands the keys hastily, afraid that he might fumble around and just anger him further.

The door opens with a click, revealing a warm rush of air that’s gone too soon in the cold.

“Well, going in?” The teen impatiently grits his teeth as he holds the door open with his foot, his eyebrow raised as he waits for Yuuri to get in.

“Sorry,” the Japanese mumbles an apology, getting inside immediately so they can close the door.

It’s immediately warm again, with the orange walls and the homey atmosphere. Yuuri feels instantly relaxed.

“ _Mudak_! We’re back!” He watches the boy yell out loud as he puts down his bag of groceries on a table, before eyeing Yuuri for a moment.

“Did you actually hit your head?” Yuuri doesn’t know the answer for that. “You’ve been really damn quiet since you’ve embarrassed yourself in the market earlier.”

“It’s… It’s nothing.”

The younger boy makes a noise that doesn’t sound too convinced. He makes a face, and leaves Yuuri alone to go to another room.

With the boy gone, Yuuri tries his best to take in everything that’s happened in the last hour.

It started with him embarrassing himself in _Le Louvre_ , of all places, to him being to Russia, _of all fucking places_.

Did he sign up for this?

_Did Yuuri sign up for this?_

(No, and _no._ )

Sighing, he wonders to if he’s even in present time.

Well, with the long brown coats and old-fashioned dresses, maybe he’s a bit later in time.

The boy’s head pops out from the room he went in, and calls his name. “Oi, piggy. Until when are you going to sit in there?”

 _Jesus_ , if this boy isn’t so petulant perhaps this… Experience would be _more_ bearable.

* * *

* * *

When Yuuri entered to room his beckoned to go in, he didn’t expect to see the same painting he’s seen not so long ago.

On a canvas.

Still in progress.

“-old you, he’s been acting weird ever since he fell on his ass!”

Yuuri pinches himself, hard, and he just silently seethes in pain when his skin starts actually hurting.

Not a dream so much, then?

“-no, you ass, I did _not_ -“

If this _isn’t_ a dream, and he’s seeing what he’s seeing right now-

“-ktor!”

With the sudden the outburst, it causes Yuuri to jump and see what’s going on in front of him with a clearer mind – and _oh no it still doesn’t make sense._

He finally sees who the boy from earlier is talking to, and Yuuri all but sees long platinum hair shining under warm sunlight that filtered quietly into the room.

They’re sitting down on a stool, so Yuuri wasn’t able to see them instantly. They seemed to be painting the artwork Yuuri saw in the art gallery from earlier- what was its name? _Cold morning?_

The person shifts and stands up, probably had enough from all the yelling the teenager is doing. His hair swishes to the side as he forks his hand through the strands, pushing all of it into one shoulder and reties the loose knot.

Then they turn around.

_Beautiful._

And Yuuri feels like his heart is going burst _._

* * *

* * *

The moment he turned around, he expected to see Yuuri’s smiling face again, and greet like him usual, maybe Viktor could sneak a kiss on a cheek if he’s lucky this morning. (By lucky, he means Yuuri has finally _maybe_ stopped being upset at him.)

But no.

He sees Yuuri, frozen in place, mouth agape and brows furrowed.

_What’s wrong?_

“Yuuri?” His accent comes out thicker than usual. When Yuuri didn’t move, he himself comes closer instead.

Maybe Yuuri’s still a little mad about their argument (but come on, it was _days_ ago). However, when he’s about a foot or two away from him, Yuuri starts to walk back, until he hits a wall.

He looked absolutely _terrified_ , as if Viktor’s going to devour him if he comes closer. He keeps panicking, in that little corner of the room, until his head hits the wall a little too hard.

“ _Yuuri!”_

* * *

* * *

Cup of tea in hand, warm and _Chamomile_. Relaxing.

There’s a blanket around his shoulders, and he’s placed near a window so he can get fresh air and sun.

He passed out earlier from all the shock and surprise and ended up almost breaking his nose and glasses – possibly _a-fucking-gain_.

Thankfully, he didn’t, because- what was his name – _Yuri? This is really hard when they have the same name_ – caught him just before he hit his face flat on the wooden ground.

They told him he’s been asleep for a couple of hours, and that made Yuuri feel worse.

_Just what could he have found out if he didn’t pass out?_

(Maybe a lot.)

A sigh leaves his mouth as he knocks his head upon the glass window. There are less people outside now, and the sun is of more orange hue, smoothly melting in the purple sky. If only this was an _actual_ vacation to Russia.

Unfortunately…

“Yuuri.”

He flinches at the voice, and turns his head around to see the man- _the beautiful man_ from earlier, this time with his hair down and concern all over his features.

“Y... yes?” The Japanese tries to reply, his fingers tightening its hold on the porcelain cup.

“How are you feeling?”

He’s beautiful- _very_ beautiful, and according to Yuuri’s experiences with beautiful people, it’s that when he talks to them, his tongue turns to _sandpaper_.

“Um… fine, I- I suppose. ” There’s a struggle to the reply, and the man in front of him obviously didn’t buy it.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” he says it with a whine, and it takes almost all of Yuuri’s consciousness to not melt in that honeyed voice, “ _let_ me take care of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri doesn’t exactly know what he’s apologizing for, but he feels the need to. Hell, this man probably knows him better than Yuuri knows himself while Yuuri doesn’t even know a fraction of who this man is.

Well, besides-

“Viktor!” They both turn to the door being slammed quite loudly, revealing Yuri with the dog trailing behind him.

Well, besides the fact that this is probably _the_ Viktor, the beautiful painter whose works he happened to find in a museum, the beautiful painter whose works he couldn’t help but touch, only to send him to Russia.

Probably back in time, too.

* * *

In the next few days, Yuuri tried his most at pretending like as if he didn’t get transported into another world, and that him and Viktor are still close like how Viktor thinks they are.

Viktor is kind, he obviously cares for Yuuri; like how he often would make sure Yuuri feels warm from the cold, how he gives him flowers every morning whenever he comes back from getting flowers he wants to add to a painting. Don’t get Yuuri wrong, he appreciates him and his pretty face _very_ much.

Except, _maybe_ whenever Viktor advances on him to put his thumb on his lip or lay an arm around his waist, Yuuri has to walk away with a stutter.

They were close, but he doesn’t think they’re close _enough_ to be lovers.

(Here’s to hoping, rather.)

The faces Yuri makes, too, says a lot about their relationship.

Yuri doesn’t live them, a blessing and a curse. He lives next door with his grandpa and uncle… Yakov…? (Yuuri doesn’t remember) - but even if he does, he often visits and drops by often enough you can mistake him as a resident of Viktor’s house.

 _Anyway_. From all the small bits of information he can get in the short span of time without being ultimately odd, he came up with the conclusion that he’s Viktor’s apprentice and house helper of some sort.

Sharing the same house, food, and bath, Yuuri’s almost surprised they’re not sharing the same room. (He’s very, _very_ glad that they don’t.)

Most of the time Viktor’s just painting in the living room, and continuing _“Cold morning”_. Yuuri hears him whining that it doesn’t look good enough or that the colours are all wrong. Of course, Yuuri begs to differ when this man’s works are literally going to be put up in a high-end museum where people _will_ pay just to see a glance of his artworks.

Life is pretty okay.

(If you don’t count Viktor literally being useless as a horse with no legs in the kitchen.)

((The only thing that makes Yuuri feel happy about in this place is Viktor’s dog, Makkachin.

He doesn’t deserve to have such a ridiculous owner. Is he even aware of his mortality?

Of course not. He’s pure and wholesome, a sentient unselfish being.

Yuuri loves him a lot. He kneeled in front of him one time, patting his soft ears and fluffy head.

“I love you.” He whispered as Makkachin leaned more to his touch. “I don’t have my wallet right now but I’d give it to you.”))

(((Maybe he’s going insane from all of this.)))

* * *

Life isn’t pretty okay.

Wait, let him reiterate that: life is (still) pretty okay, but Viktor isn’t.

A week had passed, and the days grew increasingly longer. While that’s just some exaggeration on his part, Yuuri couldn’t even heave out a sigh anymore every morning. Somehow, even though he’s aware his real body is probably in a fancy museum in France right now, a couple of weeks into this life made it feel like he’s lived here his whole lifetime already.

But the sad part, rather, is that he’s still not used to the other man in the house.

Now, Yuuri’s met foreigners before, hell- _most_ of his friends are foreigners. He’s _very_ aware that their behaviour and actions can be a stark contrast to his fellow Japanese friends but no one – _nothing_ compares to Viktor.

Is body language his mother tongue? Or does he think Yuuri doesn’t know how to speak Russian? (Not that Yuuri really does, but, you know his point.)

Why- and when he says why - _why_ must whenever Viktor wants to put a point across, he just has to touch him in all the places Yuuri’s not even comfortable of being touched at?

Well, the last time Yuuri checked the calendar in the house is that it’s still March, still the month when he, uh, _passed out_ in the museum. So if he’s going to survive in this building for longer lengths of time, Yuuri’s hoping he’ll reach July or August at the very least.

“Viktor,” he calls to him one morning. Yuuri’s making Borscht for breakfast, but Viktor has other plans. “Viktor,” once more he tries, but Viktor was just _too_ adamant about what he wants today.

Currently, with Yuuri’s hand held on a wooden spoon while the other is holding the lid, obviously unable to pat away Viktor’s grip on his arms.

“Viktor, _what_ are you doing?”

And Viktor makes a humming noise, as if he hasn’t heard him at all.

“I’m trying to give you a pose, _Yuratchka_. Not so troubling, yes?”

Troubling? Yuuri blinks at his statement. “I’m trying to _cook_ here, Viktor.” Proving his point, he wiggles his arms away but Viktor grabs him easily again. “Or would you rather a breakfast of burnt soup instead?”

He hears Viktor whine petulantly in his neck, _again_ , too close for comfort. “Won’t you let me paint you like this at least?”

With that, Yuuri’s heart skips a beat.

“Paint me?” I mean, it’s not like Yuuri would really want that but _it’s not_ like a Russian national treasure of an artist is literally begging behind him to be his subject for his painting right now.

“Who else would I paint in this house? No one but you, moya zvezdochka.” Right now, Viktor’s fully latched onto his back with his lips dangerously hovering on his neck and _oh no burning the fucking soup is the least of his worries right now_.

“… Fine.” If that meant Viktor pulling away from him immediately, _fine_.

Viktor makes a happy sound, and nuzzles his face on Yuuri’s neck again, before making Yuuri gasp loudly when he dropped a kiss on the skin of Yuuri’s back his mouth can reach with the loose sweater he’s wearing.

“Viktor!” But all the _damn_ man does is just chuckle at him before getting away before Yuuri catches him to get his painting materials. Yuuri pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart, as he’s afraid it might turn agile the next second and make him lose his mind.

When will he wake up, huh?

“Yuuri!” Viktor exclaims once he’s returned from getting what he needed. The Japanese sees him carrying a smaller canvas than usual, but that doesn’t mean that Viktor’s going to slow down on doing what he wants to Yuuri this instance. “I’m ready to paint!”

“Exciting.”

Happy giggles escape Viktor’s lips, with his mouth seemingly looking like a heart, and _no,_ that’s _not_ physically possible - _what the fuck_.

“Don’t make me the centre of the painting,” Yuuri warns, stirring the soup languidly before adding the next set of ingredients.

But of course, Viktor just makes a non-committal noise and carries on with his work.

* * *

* * *

Cooking while being painted was far harder than Yuuri thought it would be, as Viktor would make an unappreciative noise if he moved no more than an inch from where he is.

“I’m cooking!” Yuuri grumbles to him when Viktor whined again when he reached to get the diced tomatoes. “I can’t just stay in _one_ place this whole hour!”

“But I’m painting you!” The older man wails back, brows furrowing in frustration.

This is fruitless. He puffs out warm air to calm himself down, just to, you know, release a little stress.

“Viktor, I’m _sure_ you can paint me even if I’m moving in the slightest,” he tells him with gritted teeth, “can’t you?”

It seems to work as Viktor says nothing else with a pout and carries on with his work, leaving the rest of the morning quiet but of the pot’s clanging and Viktor’s occasional mumbles to himself.

* * *

* * *

“Yuuri,” he hears the Russian call his name as they eat their breakfast. And Yuuri makes a non-interested noise, as he’s far more attentive towards his bread and share of soup.

“Did I do something to make you angry?”

“Mmn?”

“ _Yuratchka_ , are you mad at me?” It would’ve been easy to let it pass, but with the serious tone of Viktor’s voice and his hand reaching to hold Yuuri’s, it catches Yuuri off-guard more than it was probably meant to.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Viktor beats him to it.

“You’re quieter these days, you won’t let me hug you for longer amounts of time, you won’t even call me _Vitya_ ,” the Borscht is left half-eaten on the bowl, getting colder, possibly even more as the seconds tick by with Viktor’s icy eyes completely trained towards it. “You won’t accept my kisses, won’t sleep next to me at all.”

“I’ve been silent about it since last week, since I thought maybe you just thought I got a little annoying, but it’s been two weeks already and you won’t _even_ hear me out when I say I want to spend time with you.”

Oh no. _Oh no no no-_

“ _Moya lyubov_ , won’t you tell me what made you upset?” The grip on Yuuri’s hand is firm, albeit a little shaky and nervous, and it drives his anxiety in max speed at the Highway to Hell. “I want to apologise for what I did that made you upset, but I don’t know what I did to make you this… This _avoidant_.”

“Viktor-“ and the grip tightens, and Yuuri understands immediately the situation.

The man in front of him is _hurting_ , and Yuuri doesn’t know what to do since he isn’t even supposed to be here in the first place. It’s not like he can get transported into a different era - in time _and_ location - and completely know what to do.

Viktor’s telling him that he’s been acting cold for two weeks now, but Yuuri has only been here for a _week_ – has the other… Yuuri been making him feel lonely too? This is a conversation the other Yuuri has to deal with, not _him_.

Of course, it’s not Viktor’s fault at all that Yuuri – _this_ Yuuri - is like this; _geez_ , the poor guy has no idea at all. However, Yuuri can’t say it’s his fault either.

(Partly, maybe, since it was his own temptation to touch the painting even though it was completely said in the museum policies to not touch the paintings at all costs.)

But it’s obvious now, they _are_ lovers, as he had thought initially. That alone is enough to make his heart fluster and race over his lack of experience in that area.

Viktor, his _supposed_ lover, is looking dejected, thinking he’s at fault here, and _oh fuck_ Yuuri doesn’t know what to do.

“ _Vitya_ ,” he tries this time, supplying the name Viktor offered earlier. Then, as if on cue, the hand around his softens in the slightest as the nickname ends on his lips, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why won’t you let me be with you?” Viktor exclaims suddenly, and Yuuri sees his glassy eyes flicker to him in a split second before pearl-like tears spill down his face. “You’re completely acting like how you were back then when we first met!”

Yuuri wants to calm him down, as this is literally nothing he really should be getting worries about, but Viktor, _oh Viktor_ , beats him to it again and stands up from his seat to grab his face across the table before he could say a breath.

“Am I stranger, Yuuri?”

 _Yes_ , Yuuri wants to say, admit the truth and tell him everything that’s happened. From the part where he saw his paintings in a museum in the future, to this morning where the soup of Borscht is left forgotten and cold on the table.

“ _Vitya_ , _please_ ,” the younger says it with desperation, hesitantly reaching up to hold Viktor’s hands on his face, “ _nothing_ is your fault.”

Viktor was silent for a quiet moment, before he chokes out. “I need you,” he sobs unabashedly, “ _please_.”

The black-haired man thought he was in no place to refuse.

* * *

* * *

It’s already a little dark, and with only one candle burning in the corner, Yuuri can easily point out it’s getting into early evening.

They’ve been lying down on Vitya’s couch ever since their row earlier, and have been cuddling the whole day.

“ _Yuratchka_ ,” the other man calls him warmly, and Yuuri hears the low grumble of his throat with his head pressed close against his chest. “Do you still want to make dinner?”

“There’s leftover Borscht from this morning,” Yuuri replies as he plays on the cotton of Vitya’s shirt. It’s calm, and quiet, just like this. _Just_ what he prefers. “Hungry?”

“Mm, not yet.”

Then Vitya was silent for a while again, just his soft breaths syncing Yuuri’s in the little room of their house.

“Do you want to see the stars?”

Stars?

“Right now?” Yuuri confirms, and lifts his head up to face Vitya properly.

“Yeah,” it almost clenches Yuuri’s heart to pulp as to how Vitya smiles at him as if he’s the masterpiece he’s only ever painted; loving, proud, and Yuuri couldn’t feel but guilt as he doesn’t even deserve to be treated like this.

He feels Vitya brush his hair away from his eyes, then down to cup his cheek, then to press his thumb lightly his bottom lip. Yuuri can notice how sharp Vitya’s looking at his lips, his wish painfully obvious even to the blind eye.

It’s just that… Yuuri can only push himself _so far_ pretending to be someone’s lover.

“Okay,” he agrees before Viktor could make a move, and pushes himself off his chest.

Yuuri knows it’s such a cruel thing to do, and he _knows_ Viktor’s thinking about how he’s acting again.

“ _Lapochka_ ,” Viktor calls him again, catching his hand before he could get away from him further.

And when Yuuri turned around, he sees Viktor bringing the hand he caught to his lips and places and gentle kiss against the knuckles.

“What… What is it?” The Japanese tries to say, feeling his throat going dry at the sudden surprise of something so affectionate.

And Vitya chuckles it off, finally standing up from the couch, too.

* * *

* * *

“It’s not too cold?” Vitya asks him as he settles them down beside the window. In Vitya’s room, he’s got a bigger window that easily captures St. Petersburg’s sky.

“No,” the other man in question replies honestly, seeing as Makkachin is also cuddling close under the thick blanket. There’s no way he’d feel cold.

“Good,” there’s a small pressure against his hair, and Yuuri doesn’t even want to think that it’s Viktor kissing his head.

Instead, Yuuri just stares at the view of the skies outside, marvelling on how continues it to spread far away like spilled black paint upon a canvas, with the stars reminding him of broken pieces of glass that gradually scattered across the inky sky.

“So pretty,” he whispers under his breath, making Vitya chuckle and huddle him closer with his arms.

“I know.”

Yuuri feels Vitya rest his head against shoulder, albeit it made him panic in a heartbeat, he settles down and decides that, ‘ _well_ , _it could be worse.’_

And that it could be.

“You know,” Vitya starts, with his eyes still glues to the starry sky, “I’ve always wanted to paint Russia’s night sky. But I’ve still got my other painting and yours to finish,” he continues with a pout, “maybe I’ll do it after I finish the one I’m doing by the living room window.”

With a quiet hum as a reply from Yuuri, Vitya still went on with his mindless talk, realising that maybe Yuuri isn’t really in the mood for talking today.

“You’re not upset with me anymore, right?” He asks suddenly, startling Yuuri’s heart to stop.

“I’m not _even_ upset with you at the first place,” the younger grumbles, stating the truth.

Then Vitya went silent, calmly breathing and Yuuri sees his brain working.

“Noisy,” he voices out, nuzzling against Vitya’s head. At first he didn’t mean to, as it might be a little uncharacteristic. Yet with the purr Vitya makes, it doesn’t seem so bad after all.

“Can you tell me why you’ve been so quiet then, _Yuratchka_?”

A little surprised, Yuuri turns to meet Viktor. He’s searching for something for his eyes, but he doesn’t know what. Maybe annoyance? Exhaustion?

“It’s… it’s nothing really,” he lies smoothly, trying to look as truthful as much as he can. “You really, _really_ don’t have to worry about it, Vitya.”

“Yu _uuuri_ ,” the petulant whine’s back, making Yuuri let out another sigh.

“There’s _literally_ nothing wrong,” he argues and hopes that Viktor would take that as an answer.

Well, he sort of does, as he shuts his mouth for a moment to stare at Yuuri, the sky forgotten just like the Borscht this morning.

“May I kiss you?”

’ _I don’t know_ ,’ Yuuri immediately wants to say as he ends his question, for once his brain didn’t short circuit on every question Viktor surprises him.

It’s not like, he wants to say no, because he’ll admit: he finds Viktor maybe a little _bit_ too attractive, enough to make his heart pound at every intimate interaction he makes.

But it’s also not like he wants to say yes, because for one, to Viktor they maybe lovers for such a time, but for Yuuri, Viktor is just a stranger he’s met, probably on accident even.

Besides, he feels like he doesn’t deserve to receive all these loving touches at all - it’s _ridiculous_.

 _Again_ , this is a situation for the _other_ _Yuuri_ to be in.

Yuuri feels like he doesn’t belong at the place and time yet somehow everything works as if it’s just _natural_ for him to be right here and right now.

“Um…” He stutters for a second, his eyes tearing away from Viktor’s

“Yuuri, won’t you _let_ me kiss you?” Viktor tries again, this time holding Yuuri’s jaw to face him.

And once again, Yuuri feels like he’s in no position to decline.

He fixes his gaze on the sky, trying to completely ignore the hand on his jaw and Viktor’s icy gaze.

“ _Yura_ ,” Yuuri faintly hears him say, and suddenly Viktor’s face is about a breath away from him and finally – _finally_ , his brain stops working and Yuuri’s heart starts hammering louder than what he can handle. The pounding is enough distraction for his brain to stop yelling, and Yuuri feels his heart succumb to the man in front of him.

“Okay.” He says, a whisper shared between them. And then Vitya’s eyes light up, like glittering stars, brighter than the real deal from beyond the window.

And Vitya leans closer, until his mouth almost touches Yuuri. But he moves, and just kisses the cheek next to Yuuri’s lips.

It startles him, making him squeak like a little mouse as he feels the warm pair of lips press against his cold skin.

Even still, Yuuri feels like he’s copper, silver- like _metal_ \- melting down from a strong fire that makes him feel like hot liquid and unable to think. Vitya chuckles against his ear, before he pulls away and smiles at Yuuri’s expression.

“You look like I just stole your first kiss,” he notes as he smiles wider at how Yuuri’s blush spread from his cheeks to his ears. Even with this dim light from the moon and stars, it’s enough to see how scarlet Yuuri’s face is.

He moves to pull away, but Yuuri grabs his arm under the blanket.

“You… “ Yuuri coughs out, his eyes still looking at everywhere but Vitya’s face, “you can… do more than just that.”

The smile that spread across Vitya’s face is almost ineffable, as it happened too fast - as Vitya grabs him quickly (but gently) from the waist and smooched his lips.

It was almost like nothing special, just a soft press of lips against lips.

And when he pulled away, this time, Yuuri _did_ want to say he just stole his first kiss.

“A _aa_ h, _moya zvezdochka_ ,” Vitya sighs against him as he hugs him tightly, “you make me so happy.”

Vitya’s words makes Yuuri’s chest flutter for a moment, before remembering how the situation still is, that Viktor is probably just quite literally a figment of his mind’s imagination, and he could still be lying down on the museum’s cold floor.

However all of that gets thrown in the window again, as Vitya kisses his ear and mumbles another Russian phrase.

‘ _What was it? Ya teh-bya loo-bloo?_ ’

He doesn’t know, and he just butchered something probably important in his mind.

What he _does_ know, is that _maybe_ he can actually get used to this.

 _Yeah_ , he sure can.

At least Yuuri feels like so, as Vitya’s arm tightens around his waist and every breath that Yuuri makes Viktor’s hair flutter gently in their close hold.

* * *

Time passes again, and Yuuri just realises he’s been in this place for more than a month already.

This time, they’re cuddling, in Vitya’s bed. Lately, Yuuri notices too, that they’ve been spending time on each other’s beds more often than not.

Well, according to Vitya, who’s wailing on Yuuri being a “tease”, who just stopped letting him sleep next to him all of a sudden when they used to spend each night huddled together in bed. Yuuri doesn’t want to know what happens then.

 _Anyway_ , this time, they’re cuddling, and Yuuri didn’t know he could actually manage to do this from all the situations he’s been through.

He didn’t think about cuddling close, his arms wrapped around Vitya’s waist and head rested on his. He didn’t think even think about Vitya lifting his head up, every now and then, to meet his eyes, and Yuuri will act automatically – knowing he’s asking for a peck on the lips and Yuuri’s happy to give him what he wants.

“Do you believe in reincarnation, _Yuratchka_?” Vitya pipes out, breaking the silence, stopping Yuuri from gently carding his fingers through his long hair. He didn’t let his arms become loose around Yuuri’s, though.

 _Yeah_ , Yuuri wants to respond. “Sort of.”

“Really?” And the way Vitya says it, so light and airy and Yuuri couldn’t make out if he’s mocking him or he’s _that_ amused.

“Mmn,” Yuuri hums as a reply instead. After all these times he’s spent with Vitya, sometimes it’s best to leave things unquestioned. “Why?” And just as he said so in his brain, his mouth does the opposite.

But of course, Vitya takes his time to respond. He continues making purring noises as Yuuri continued running his fingers under Vitya’s shirt, obviously enjoying all the attention Yuuri’s giving him.

“If you get reincarnated,” the Russian finally starts, albeit his voice smaller than usual. “do you think,” another pause, before he gets louder, “do you think… you’ll be like a poodle?”

And then Yuuri blinks at him, his warm eyes dumbfounded. Is he supposed to feel good… or like, offended?

“Um, thanks?” He says to him, unsure what to think about of what he said.

“No, no!” Viktor suddenly sits up, and turns around to sit face forward instead. He makes a grab to Yuuri’s arm, to wrap then around him again and pull him closer once more. “I meant like,” he thinks about what he means for a second, “like Makkachin!”

Yuuri’s face says it all.

“Makka is so cute! And my Yuuri, _moya lyubov_ , you’re far more cuter and adorable than what you think you are!” Vitya makes sure to get his point across by kissing his lover full on lips. “So wouldn’t it make sense if a person as lovely as you become something as lovely as well?”

It’s unfair, unfair how Vitya actually made him blush from all the compliments he won’t stop gushing about him.

“Well then I think,” Yuuri begins to say, sliding one of his hands out of Vitya’s grasp and gently held Vitya’s jaw instead, “if you get reincarnated, you’ll still have your face, since I’m pretty _sure_ God knows himself you’re too beautiful to change how you look.”

He sees Vitya, wide-eyed and speechless, his mouth opening and closing as he’s unable to make a comeback, so Yuuri beats him to it. “Or at least, if you die, I’ll make sure you keep your pretty face even when I’ve changed mine a hundred times.”

“Wow!” Vitya exclaims and Yuuri feels _hot_. He doesn’t know where it came from all of a sudden. It came to him, crashing like an ocean wave and making shiver all over.

Vitya leans closer, until his mouth touches Yuuri’s ear. “Be my lover forever, then.” The older man whispers, grinning when he feels Yuuri jump in the slightest. “Even in the next life, promise me you won’t change your face and I won’t change mine.”

 _Of course_ , Yuuri so badly wants to defend. Maybe his relationship with Viktor has been going well, but it doesn’t mean that _of course_ he still might be dreaming all of this, dying in a cold museum floor, in front of this man’s artworks.

“Of course.”

* * *

“Viktor, I, for one, cannot think of any reason as to why you should bring me there too,” with a grumble, Yuuri adjusts his scarf and coat. His body still feels slightly cold, even with having multiple layers of clothing on top of him.

Even with the clear sky, and snow gone in the May weather, it still makes sense for it to be cold, for, after all, he _is_ in Russia.

“Nonsense,” Vitya argues half-heartedly, waving off his complaints by a gloved hand. “It’s quite important for you to come with me, _solnyshko_.”

“It’s just picking flowers.” And that it is. Even so, Yuuri couldn’t help but feel giddy even in the slightest as him and Vitya went down the path to the flower field Viktor usually visits to get flowers for his paintings.

“Do you have any image you have in mind already, Yuuri?”

Yuuri pauses for a moment to think, “sunflowers?”

He sees Vitya look at him, before breaking out into a smile. “Of course.”

* * *

* * *

The flower field was less than Yuuri had in mind, probably because he was used to the blooming fields of Hokkaido whenever he visits his grandmother.

Nevertheless, the field is still by no means unspectacular, and actually impressive, considering the weather here in St. Petersburg.

A wide array of flowers grew all over the moist soil, from chrysanthemums to dahlias. _Almost_ just as pretty as the man standing next to him.

“Well?” _Well?_ What else would Vitya think Yuuri would say when he’s presented a flower field as beautiful as this?

“Gorgeous,” Yuuri tells him anyway, grinning as Vitya made a happy sound and kissed his knuckles.

* * *

* * *

They return home, arms full of flowers they’ve hand-picked. It was quite hard to choose on what Viktor will use, so they decided to just get a bunch.

And just as they’ve put the flowers in their vases, Viktor immediately makes a grab at Yuuri, keeping him sandwiched between his body and the table. He gives him a kiss, pulling his lips in earnest as Yuuri let out a small groan.

“ _Vitya_ ,” Yuuri, glassy eyed behind fogged glasses, unable to help himself _but_ to pull Vitya closer.

Of course, Viktor, the most understanding lover, complied and kisses him again, deeper and left Yuuri whimpering under him.

 _Fuck!_ Yuuri jabs at himself for being carried away. They’ve _never_ done anything more than chaste pecks - let alone _deep_ kissing - so leave him and his poor soul to start panicking when Vitya started kissing down his neck.

“ _Vi- Vitya_ ,” he voices out, scared that his own voice might betray him for the worse.

 _Of course_ , of course, of course, _of course_ ; Vitya, the most unreasonable lover, looks at him with dilated pupils and curls his lips to the smuggest grin, like he knows what he’s doing to Yuuri and relieves in the result of it.

“What’s wrong, _Yura_?” And Vitya just had to call him like _that_ \- throaty and deep, making Yuuri feel like he’s drowning in a stormy sea of lust and temptations, unable to find an anchor and it’s so _unfair_.

“We- We shouldn’t… shouldn’t –“ The younger makes a gesture to press a lithe finger against Vitya’s eager lips, “-shouldn’t continue- this…”

“What’s _this_ , _Yura_?” Even though Yuuri’s weakly pushing away, Vitya still gets to press himself closer – like he always do, always, _always_. “I don’t think I quite understand.”

_“You never do.”_

* * *

* * *

It’s like a painting – colours mixing from red to orange to yellow, creating amber shades with soft strokes that blurs the paint. And with the afternoon sun flowing in, it becomes a light source that intensifies the passionate tones carefully made by the artist.

And Yuuri, Yuuri feels exactly like that.

His body, his chest, his face – crimson, ruby, _vermillion_.

 _His body_ , spread across Vitya’s bed, basking in the low orange hue of the room. There’s a soft breeze coming in every now and then, making the silver threads of hair in front of him flutter slowly.

He breathes, and exhales, and _cries_ out, unable to help himself as Vitya takes more of him than he already had.

Vitya _takes_ him, holding on to every shake of hips, listening to every whimper to come out of his _treacherous_ mouth, and smiles at him like he’s a painting he’s yet to finish.

Legs spreading farther and arms reaching closer, he moans wantonly as Vitya continues to ravish him with such gentleness that makes Yuuri feel like floating in air.

And of course, Vitya finishes him, exactly like a painting - _painting_ him beautifully as he marvels at the gorgeous sight that left him breathless.

Yuuri hears him say that Russian phrase again, as he falls against his chest in a soft plop, ‘ya teh-bya loo-bloo’. Yuuri knows, that he’s butchered it again in his head, even if it’s a phrase important enough for Vitya to say it again to him.

So he makes a contented noise instead, nuzzling further to Vitya who’s completely snuggled under the sheets with him, only to be follow it up with a discontented noise when Vitya stood up from the bed.

“Let’s get you tea and clean you up first, _lapochka_.”

* * *

* * *

When Viktor returned, Yuuri’s wearing his cotton pants again, only to his disappointment - but at least he’s back with a steaming cup of _Darjeeling_ tea in one hand, and canvas and paint tools in the other.

The Japanese gives him a pointed look, only for him to just smile it off and hand him his cuppa.

“Thank you,” Yuuri mumbles as he takes the tea and watches Vitya settle in the chair by the window, who places his tools on a nearby table and holds his canvas in front of him. “I don’t quite believe I have consented to this.” He states pointedly with an exaggerated face and Vitya just laughs at him.

“But _I_ do quite believe that you deserve to be painted right now, _Yuratchka_.”

Picture this: Yuuri, his _lover_ , half-naked, hair disheveled, holding a cup of tea, and sitting on the edge of Viktor’s unmade bed while the room glows golden from the afternoon light.

Wouldn’t anyone love to see that hanged in a museum one day?

* * *

They just make use of the flowers the next day instead, with Viktor insisting Yuuri should wear it in a garland all day so he can sketch him whenever he wants to.

Yuuri agrees with a groan, but he enjoys the attention he’s getting the whole day, anyway.

* * *

“Your hair is like the moon,” Yuuri tells him, his voice barely above a whisper. He feels himself falling, falling and falling deeper into _madness_.

And Viktor, with his hair glowing exactly indeed like the moon outside the window and his silver strands fluttering gently against his cheek, leans closer and suddenly the room feels like an _open fire_.

They’re melting – _together_.

So he reaches, impatient and lovestruck. He reaches for Yuuri’s face, and realises his lover’s skin is _burning_.

But he doesn’t pull away and ends the distance between them instead, letting the fire consume him. It doesn’t matter, Viktor will burn for him _anyway_.

* * *

“Ah, it’s the last day of Spring.”

“Is it?”

“Mmn, it ends around the 20th of June, and that’s today.”

Yuuri turns his head to look at his lover, eyes shining in amusement over the little fact he shared.

Well, he wanted to look at him, but the sun today is burning brighter than usual, so it becomes a little hard to see Vitya’s face under the light. So he squeezes his hand instead, and continues walking.

They’re currently about to get back home from the market, Viktor’s just buying more apples as he says he had _craving_.

Suddenly, Yuuri remembers the red apples, from the _beginning_ , from where it all started and guilt started to rise from his throat.

“ _Viktor_ ,” he calls to him after he’s paid for the fruits, and all of Vitya’s attention suddenly is on him again.

“What is it, _moya lyubov_?” Vitya’s eyes are silent, careful, as if he knows that Yuuri’s having an inner debacle with himself. “Something wrong?”

“Well-“ They leave the market place, with Yuuri carrying the bag of apples and Vitya carrying the rest. Yuuri insists they sit on a bench first.

“Can I tell you something?” The younger treads slowly, his eyes never leaving the crowd walking past by them.

“Of course, _Yuratchka_.” He feels Viktor press a kiss on his hand and he’s suddenly awoken by the cold harsh reality that _oh_ this isn’t _real_.

“Promise me you won’t say anything until I done?”

The silence is enough for Yuuri to accept Viktor’s reassurance.

“God, how do I start this?” The Japanese anxiously looks at him, and sees his lover looking far away too. Their hands don’t part. He takes a breath.

“I wasn’t... Supposed to be here, but somehow managed to… Travel here, back in time, far away from where I was,” Yuuri starts with no stumble, with no stutter and jumble, “I thought I was just being an idiot, but then Yuri just started yelling at me, for falling on my ass, and I realised that I _really_ am in St. Petersburg at that moment.

“And when he brought me back to your house, I was almost afraid I was kidnapped, all the way to Russia. Of course, I didn’t really accept the fact that the era seemed off than when I used to be.

“And – _Viktor_ – you, _you_ , of all people who I seemed to live with – you just had to be the one. And I was terrified, because everything basically concludes to the fact that I _did_ travel back in time, in space, and I just had to live _you_.”

There’s a small grumble from his left, and Yuuri couldn’t help but shy away a smile.

“ _You_ just had to be insistent and adamant on _everything_ , I couldn’t help but _want_ to catch up to you. And when you said that we were lovers, I thought it was the end of the world – I didn’t think I could _pretend_ to be someone’s lover, for God’s sake!” The hand around his squeezes harder, a cue for him to continue.

“But somehow, you did something – _I don’t what it was but it was probably awful of you to_ – I forgot that I transported to your time in the process, and I _stupidly, foolishly, ridiculously_ forgot that I was supposed to be _pretending_ not _being_.”

He pauses, not knowing where to go from there, so he speaks the only truth left for Viktor to know.

“I’m not the Yuuri you know, _Viktor_.” He finally glances to him, but Viktor’s still looking away, unreadable. “I’m the Yuuri hundreds of years from now, living in a country that’s too far to be near Russia, and I’ve been lying to you all this time.” And this time, he’s the one who nudges Viktor to speak, who’s still quiet until –

He lets out a hearty laugh, the _one_ that makes your chest feel bubbly and warm. “As I thought, my predictions were correct.”

 _And this time_ , Yuuri tries to look at him, without the sun blaring angrily to his eye and sees the other man smiling at him.

“I knew already you weren’t _my_ Yuuri, even if it were just small guesses on my part.”

“How did you- how did you even…”

“Like that one time we were arguing during breakfast, the one with the Borscht, and I started crying,” Yuuri grimaces with the memory, “usually, you’d be frustrated and try to stop me crying, and you’d call me ridiculous, because I’m just being a dumb idiot really,” he continues with snort and Yuuri cherishes those little noises _so much_ , “but you started panicking, as if it was the first time you saw me cried, and you didn’t know what to do.”

“I – I’m sorry, Vik-“

“The second time was when we made love,” Viktor blurts out, from nowhere, and grins at Yuuri’s red face. “You didn’t pull my hair, like usual, nor did you do _that_ thing where your face scrunches up and you just _beg for more_.”

It’s not supposed to be dirty, nor sexual, but Yuuri couldn’t help but whimper quietly at his words.

“The whole time you were with me, I sometimes thought that my Yuuri got somewhere else, and I’m now living with a clone. That I could be painting, spending time with, _loving_ someone who wasn’t really my lover. But then you looked like you’re determined to make me feel loved anyway, _and you did_.”

Yuuri blinks at him, owlishly, as if he couldn’t process what Viktor said.

“What I meant, _Yuratchka_ , is that it doesn’t matter if you’re the old Yuuri or the Yuuri centuries from now. I just – _I just_ want to let you know that I- I don’t care, okay? You will always be the same Yuuri for me, with your soft belly and ringing laughs. You’ll always be the same for me, okay?”

There’s a sob, and Yuuri realises that Viktor’s _crying_ , so he tries to pry his hands away from his eyes and wipes the tears with the handkerchief he brought with him. He decides to just open his mouth, and let his emotions do the rest.

“Let’s go home?”

* * *

* * *

“Remember our conversation back then?” Vitya brings up as the walk back home, hand in hand as the evening sky slowly starts to fade in. “The one when we talked about _reincarnation_?”

The Japanese gives him a small nod, and Vitya gives him a _stunning_ smile that made his heart hammer louder in his chest.

“Be my lover once more, Yuuri, in the next life. You might not be the Yuuri for me, in this time, and in this place – but I’m sure I’ll be there for you, even if it’s three hundred years away. And when you meet me, I’ll be the one for you, in the right time, and in the right place. I’m sure the universe will forgive us like that, don’t you agree?

Unlike earlier, Yuuri is the one who is now crying, endless tears spilling from his soft coffee eyes that made Vitya hug him in surprise.

He hears that _damn_ Russian phrase again, so he finally asks what he actually meant.

“ _Vi- Vitya_ ,” he mumbles while he fumbles with the coat of his lover’s, “what does – what does, um, ‘Ya teh-bya loobloo’ mean?” He cringes, internally, at how he butchered the words, only to crawl further into shame as Vitya chuckles at him.

“It means-” and Vitya leans down, whispering the phrase in English and Yuuri would be unable to stand properly if it weren’t for Vitya holding him up like steel. “ _Ya tebya lyublu,_ Yuuri.”

So he tries to say it back, in his own, butchered way.

“Y- _Ya tebya lyublu_ ,” he says with cheeks red and he just stares at how Vitya’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Ah- _Yuratchka_ , you make me so, _so_ happy,” Vitya coos as his cheeks were kissed, then his forehead and then his nose. Vitya prolongs his lips for a moment, as he pulls back to actually say, “I love you.”

So Yuuri grabs him first, by the back of his neck as he carefully avoids to knot the long silver hair, and pushes his face forward to kiss him –

Except it didn’t happen, as Yuuri’s falling again.

Always, always, falling. It seems to happen every time he wants to reach out to something beautiful. Just like before, he feels falling to the ground that’s not coming soon.

He hears Vitya’s words, “in the next life”, so he hopes for the next and the next.

They could be both writers instead, or doctors, _or even athletes._

Yuuri chides himself as he still falls to the endless ground, the darkness still lingering in every corner.

 _Athletes_ , really? He could barely even hold a volleyball properly so maybe that _next life_ thing with them as athletes won’t be happening any time soon. Unless, well – unless he can still figure skate; he had that sport as his childhood love back in Hasetsu, after all.

Maybe Viktor could be the living legend, and Yuuri’s the failure who wanted to win.

Maybe Viktor found him in a one way or another or maybe Yuuri drunkenly stumbled his way in Viktor’s life. Maybe they’d propose to each other, in a time where their love is more than acceptable and valid.

And maybe, he’d stay in St. Petersburg forever, with Makkachin warming their feet and their bodies tangled in the crisp white sheets, and every end of the day, Yuuri can call it _home_.

There can _always_ be a love story for that.

* * *

* * *

His eyes are tightly shut again, like before. He feels air lightly brushing against his eyelids, tickling him.

It should be any moment now, Yuuri’s _actual_ impending death.

He’s been joking and whining about it before the whole time he was with Viktor, but now that it’s actually happening, he just couldn’t help but snicker, if you can call it that when he’s literally floating between time and space, at his own demise.

So he braces himself, already figured out the fees he’s probably going to pay for when he wakes up: new glasses, a nose job, the fine for violating the museum rules-

* * *

_iii. serendipity_

But the impact never came.

Instead, he feels like lightning, sharp and electric as his eyes snap open, to reveal the artwork he was supposedly about to touch.

With his head suddenly feeling hazy, Yuuri steps a little back from the painting, feeling like there’s _something_ missing and he can’t point a finger _where_. He trips, though, and this time, he actually feels hot surging pain from his behind as he lands on the floor.

Yuuri tries his best to comprehend, to see what’s going on even though there’s _nothing_ that happened that he definitely had forgotten. He’s so lost in thought, that he misses the hand offered to him.

He blinks, once, twice, to adjust to the museum’s _goddamn_ bright lights, and looked up to see a stranger with a small smile offering a hand to help him stand.

So Yuuri takes it, mumbling an apology and a thank you. The stranger laughs it off, but he asks immediately if Yuuri’s feeling okay and what caused him to suddenly fall over like that.

“No - no! I’m fine, really,” the Japanese re-assures, waving his hands frantically in an attempt to prove his fine. The person didn’t seem to take it.

“Are you sure?” Yuuri isn’t sure. “I could help, you know.”

A little shamefully, Yuuri tells him, “don’t worry, there’s nothing _really_ wrong.”

There’s still doubt in the stranger’s blue eyes, but he shrugs it off with a smile as blinding as the museum’s.

“Well if you’re that sure, then I’ll continue browsing Viktor’s gallery, it’s been _a while_ since I’ve last seen his works.”

Wait.

Everything seems to suddenly zone out from Yuuri’s head, and the only thing he can focus on is the opposite wall from him. Painting of a morning with red soup. Painting of a room glowing golden with a man sitting on a bed.

Then, like a crashing ocean wave, everything comes to Yuuri at once, and he feels that _shiver_ down his spine again to his toes, a jolt of truth and- and…

 _Viktor_.

“-you can come up to me anytime if you started feeling queasy again, and I’ll take you to the first-aid centre, okay?” It’s the only thing he catches when he returns from his bubble, and Yuuri feels like falling _again_.

But this time, no, there isn’t any darkness that looms around him, nor any breeze coming at him. He’s still here, in the museum, with real bright lights and actual people all over, and he’s looking at a man he thought was just a figment of his dumb imagination.

“Ah!” The man exclaims a little loudly, making others turn to look at what’s happening. He rushes to catch Yuuri’s arms again, and pulls his flushed body against his chest.

“I _told_ you there’s something wrong,” the man grumbles as he tries to make Yuuri stand up properly again. But Yuuri’s feet wobbles, forgetting their only job since the only thing Yuuri’s paying attention was the man beside him, albeit scolding him, and thinking _wow_ I must have one _hell_ of an imagination because –

Because he’s seeing the man with those dumb crystal blue eyes, the man with the ridiculous platinum hair that seemed to be shorter compared to what Yuuri last remembers, the man that made Yuuri feel out of place but gave him _love,_ and _lots and lots of love_ nevertheless.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles quietly, afraid to speak louder. “I really must be feeling unwell.”

His sudden sniffs seemed to have startled the man, seemingly desperate to figure out what’s going with him. “Hey it’s okay, it’s okay.” He feels his arm support his back, and Yuuri feels more emotions than before. “Do you want me to take you the centre?”

So Yuuri shakes his head, “no, there’s no need. I think… I think I’ll be going home soon after viewing- viewing… Viktor’s gallery.”

There’s the doubtfulness again, making Yuuri open his mouth to convince his further but the man beats him to it.

“At least let me help you walk around? I’m afraid if I leave you might have your head on the floor.” It was meant to be a quite persuasive request, and frankly rude, as they _are_ strangers, but to the man’s surprise, Yuuri smiles and gives him a _yes_.

“Can we, um- can we look at that section?” He points to the wall with the painting of the _stupid_ Borscht soup.

“Of course.” They walk together, Yuuri still a little wobbly and heart still pounding fast, and as they reach the section, he immediately feels tears well up from his eyes once more.

He recognises the one where he’s wearing the garland of the flowers they picked, then the painting where Viktor had him sat down on his unmade bed with steaming cup of Darjeeling tea in hand and _half-naked_. There’s also one of what seemed to be a character study of Makkachin: Makkachin sleeping on the bed, Makkachin playing in the snow, and Yuuri’s heart swells over the images of the beloved dog.

There ones, too, that he didn’t know about. Like the one where he’s looking out the window in Viktor’s bedroom in the morning, with Makkachin on his lap. Or the one where he’s smiling so foolishly with a ring made from tiny flowers.

These, then, might be the old Yuuri that Viktor knew better. He looked _just_ as stupidly in love as he is before.

“’ _Viktor’s life and love’_ ,” he hears the man read the section name behind him and Yuuri feels his heart skip again when they step forward.

_It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not-_

“Did you know? Viktor didn’t really paint a lot of humans,” the man tells him, his eyes shining as he talks about something he probably _really_ likes, “he seemed to feel like he was awful at portraits, but when it came to this man,” he gestures to the pieces with Yuuri, “it was obviously a lie. Then again, this someone’s probably important to him, for him to paint him with such gentleness and care. Don’t you think so?”

And Yuuri – he’s really trying his hardest not to spill tears again, he’s had those way too much already. Yuuri knows the truth already, that he fell in love with him but-

His eyes looms over Yuuri in a bit, then back to paintings, then back to Yuuri.

“Hey, now that I see it, you really _look_ like the guy Viktor’s been obsessively painting!” Yuuri couldn’t help but _snort_. Of course, of course, _of course_ he _fucking_ does. “You sure it wasn’t you?”

At that, Yuuri laughs, a little louder at his joke. Even though his chest keeps clenching over single matter, it felt good to release some tension every now and then.

“It’s not a joke! You really, _really_ do!”

But Yuuri doesn’t listen, and sits on the bench instead, gesturing for the man sit next to him.

“You tell me that,” Yuuri counters as he sits next to him, “when you yourself reminds me Viktor himself.”

 _He’s hoping, he’s hoping, he’s hoping_ but-

“How?” The man grins at his statement, waiting eagerly for his response.

“Well-“ _Well I’ve lived with Viktor, I’ve kissed Viktor, I had sex with Viktor and I’m sorry, you’re literally like a copy of my lover_. Like he’ll say _that_. “You have the same hair,” he points out simply, instead. “Maybe yours is shorter, but that doesn’t mean _you_ couldn’t have gotten a haircut.”

“Hmm, that’s not enough proof though, mister…” Yuuri watches him glance at his student ID, “… Katsuki-“

“Yuuri.” He quickly supplies, feeling immediately awkward being called by his last name.

“- _Yuuri_ , you might need to reason more than that, I’m afraid.” And he’s _smirking_ , that stupid smirk of his that Yuuri knows too well when he wants to annoy him.

He thought about the eyes, but the public doesn’t know about that. Nor the little mole above his bellybutton. Nor how they have the same deep, throaty voice that warns you over like honey.

So he hopes again.

“Mm, maybe you’re just running me round the bush,” he tells him, hoping, hoping, _hoping_. “Who knows? I _bet_ your name is also Viktor for all I know. ”

For a moment, the man looks a little surprised, but then he gives out bubbles and bubbles of laughter that made even Yuuri laugh along with him.

“Why-” the man starts to say, unable to properly continue from all the snorts he’s making, “why, how did you _know_!”

“Wait,” Yuuri couldn’t help but voice that out loud, unfortunately. “Your name _is_ Viktor?”

“Viktor Nikiforov,” the man- _Viktor_ , introduces, _finally_ , waving his hand a little.

Nikiforov, huh.

 _Vitya_ had never mentioned about his last name, now that you mention it.

“I’m, uh, Yuuri Katsuki,” and they shake hands, but ends up laughing again at their formality.

They’re talking, and Yuuri feels like everything is starting to come into place again as Viktor gives him that _no-that’s-literally-not-fucking-possible heart-shaped_ smile whenever they get into topics that both interest them.

Yuuri was ready, _ready_ to take this man away, maybe, but he remembers Phichit and the others so he excuses himself. He almost forgets to ask for Viktor’s number except-

Except, well, his legs failed him again for the last time and it was just good thing that Viktor is always there to catch him.

“Want me to bring you to them?” Yuuri knows he still would, even if he said _no_.

“Okay,” and Viktor’s face lights up brighter than before, and places an arm to support his back. Yuuri didn’t bother to feel embarrassed to cling to his arm subtly.

“Let me treat you somewhere, after this then.” He tells Viktor, who looks at him with eyes a little wider. And much, much more blue than Yuuri remembers. “I can’t just let you go after what you’ve done for me all this time now, can I?”

Viktor lets out a chuckle and sneaks an arm to hold Yuuri’s waist. “Take me to place you love, then. _Then_ we can talk more.”

And Yuuri wouldn’t settle for anything else.

Before they leave Viktor- the _artist’s,_ gallery, he gives one last look to the _Life and Love Section_ , and smiles.

Well, this is probably the next life _Vitya’s_ been talking about, and Yuuri found him- in the _right_ place and in the _right_ time.

And so he falls. He falls and falls, falling harder and faster.

After all this time, he realises, that he’s been actually _falling_ for Viktor one way or another over and over again.

This stupid love story of theirs where Viktor made him go back in time, just let him know that’ll they’ll fall in love, but he’ll find him soon anyway, and gave Yuuri heart attacks and chest pains.

But Yuuri, oh - _Yuuri wouldn’t have it in any other way_.

**Author's Note:**

> Everything viktor called yuuri is a pet name I Don't Really Need To Translate  
> Thing thing Yurio called viktor, mudak, means dickhead
> 
> Yes!! Past Vitya has long hair and current Vitya has the Canon hair!! 
> 
> I wanted to include more scenes with Yurio but I didn't know where to add him so he's only here for a short time :=((
> 
> Please stay tuned for a sequel!! I'll write soon as I get my hands on it!!! 
> 
> I'm v glad I finally got to post this, after uni being a bitch and i literally ran into many Bullshit while posting this bc Ao3 was acting up sad life
> 
> You can!!! Leave kudos!! And comments!!! (please do) if you enjoyed!!! It makes me very happy to see ppl enjoying the Fruit Of My Labour 
> 
> ╰(*´︶`*)╯ talk to me on twitter @katsookie <33


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